


bullets may singe

by spikeface



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, FBI AU, M/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:20:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikeface/pseuds/spikeface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A remix of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/522178">Fade</a> by the incredible <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari">canistakahari</a> for the <a href="http://issenterprise.livejournal.com/62570.html">mirrorverse remix challenge</a>.  Kirk and McCoy are rival assassins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bullets may singe

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/522178) by [canistakahari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari). 



The Bureau is a tomb of a building, looming and gray even against the blue sky of summer. The lobby is worse, all dim lighting and vaulted ceilings, and marble floors that clack under Kirk's new shoes. They are security measures, since cameras are hidden in the shadows of the arches, and a noisy alert -- a perfect marriage of form and function, just like the Assistant Director who recruited him.

Kirk wonders when Pike's going to arm him. He hopes it's soon.

"He'll see you now," says an austere woman Kirk would call a secretary in any other context. She's all sharp grey fabric and pinned back hair, flat blue eyes that could give Kirk's a run for their money, with a jagged scar that climbs up the side of her neck.

She takes him to the second floor, ass swinging temptingly in front of him, leads him down a hallway that could be from a dream, through miles of unmarked doors and empty seats. He doesn't see her count the doors or hesitate as she stops at one, points to the seat in front of the door like he needs to be given exact instructions. "Sit," she iterates.

Kirk sprawls.

The hallway is dead silent as the minutes tick by. Kirk knows there are cameras, possibly with Pike on the other side of them -- yet another test to pass with flying colors. Joining the Bureau had been an alternative to school, a rebellion against the scholar desk job life his mother had planned out for him, but he's wound up doing the most studying he's had to since the truancy officer still scared him.

He's about to start napping when the door slams open.

The crack is explosive, the door smacking into the wall and then bouncing back out. Kirk turns with deliberate cool, anticipating a beast of an agent, someone else Pike has goaded with that insufferable dignity of his.

He's half right. The man staring down at him is rumpled in every sense, unshaven and hair messy, suit so cheap it's about to unravel, hanging off him like he's a bag of bones. His hand is a fist around the doorknob, his gun clearly visible under the unbuttoned jacket.

His eyes are dead, utterly expressionless.

"So you're the new kid." He's got a rumble to his voice, like he smokes or screams for a living.

"Jim Kirk." He offers his hand.

The man grunts.

"Send him in, McCoy," Kirk hears Pike say from within the office.

"Yeah, McCoy." Kirk drops his hand and offers a "fuck you" of a smile instead. "Send me in."

McCoy tilts his head, gives Kirk the once over without even the slightest hint of sexual interest. His surprisingly pretty lips purse like he's gonna say something -- or pucker up for a kiss -- and then his hand is a blur of motion.

Kirk is on the ground and bleeding before he can lunge, the crack of the pistol still echoing in his ears. His right arm is on fire, a neat little hole on his shoulder spewing blood all over the dull grey carpet. McCoy's got the gun trained on his forehead now.

Kirk grits his teeth and doesn't move. He knows Pike's watching. If this is a test he's probably failed.

"Enough, McCoy," Pike says, in the exact same tone as before.

McCoy keeps the gun trained between Kirk's eyes for a second longer, and then holsters it as quickly as he'd pulled it out. He turns sharply on his heel and stomps off down the hall.

"You missed," Kirk spits after him.

McCoy doesn't even raise his voice or turn his head as he replies, "You've got a mole on your shoulder."

Kirk realizes with deep irritation that he's right, and the mole is going to be replaced by a perfect hole of a gun shot scar now.

Pike welcomes Kirk in with a gracious gesture at another seat. Kirk takes it, clutching his shoulder. The blood is ruining his suit and the seat and more of the carpet, the pain making his carefully maintained image shiver and crumble.

Whoever this McCoy is, Kirk is going to fucking kill him.

"Anything to say for yourself?"

There's nothing for him to say that no one before has already said, sitting in this same seat and facing the same failure.

He settles for saying nothing.

"Settling in all right?"

Another fucking test, and this time Kirk's not gonna screw it up. Kirk eyes the gun on Pike's desk. It's a Glock 23 multi-purpose .40, the standard issue for all agents. Kirk imagines whipping McCoy in the face with it, and manages to smirk through the pain. "You know me -- making friends, learning new things."

"I'm sure." Pike shoves the gun, a clip, a silencer, and a card at him. 

The security clearance puts Kirk right above janitor, but the gun is a reassuring weight in his hand. He lets go of his shoulder, smears everything with blood as he pockets all but the gun.

"Spock tells me you've cheated on every test magnificently."

It all seems like so much bullshit now, with all his glory spilling out his shoulder, but Kirk rallies. "I maintain it was a bit of creative problem solving." 

"We do welcome that here."

Kirk shifts in his seat, strokes the cross-hatched butt of the gun and lets more of his blood spatter onto the floor. "So what crawled up McCoy's ass and died?"

"We assigned him a new agent. He prefers to work alone."

Kirk hides his shock. Two man jobs were unheard of, especially in a place as cutthroat as the Bureau. Every other job he's done, private or government, has been alone. "I didn't realize you guys needed the buddy system here."

"You could say that." Pike smiles faintly. "But we prefer the term 'rivalry.' If the agent outdoes his stats, he gets replaced."

That's more like it. Kirk can use whoever he gets as a new friend with a common enemy. "So who'd he get?"

Pike raises his eyebrows. "You."

\+ + +

The first job is deceptively easy, a test Kirk intends to blow out of the water. He knows there are bets placed on him to fail, which he doesn't intend to, and others, probably laid by Pike, that he's going to do it with incorrigible, expensive style. Kirk straps on his gun -- gingerly because the shoulder is still twinging -- his gloves, and his silencer. Kirk likes to draw his kills out, nice and messy as he lingers on the pain and power trip, but he's a man of many skills: when he needs it, subtlety is one of them.

The mark is Jonathan Arlington -- media mogul, in a healthy prime, and an insane profligate even by Hollywood's liberal standards. He lives in a ritzy little loft where he likes to throw parties. Technically, he's only assigned to McCoy, while Kirk is told to take leave for his shoulder.

Kirk knows better. He splurges on a good suit, pastes on a smile and double checks his gun before going to join the party. He pretends to drink champagne and watch tits while he eyes McCoy working the mark.

He admits that McCoy cleans up better than he expected. His hair is slicked meticulously to the side, his eyes shine with near human brightness, and his smile is almost perfectly deceptive -- the only hint that he's an agent is that his hands never move.

Arlington takes to him quickly, especially once McCoy slips the drug into his drink.

"Rumor is you've got a type," McCoy begins, eyes quickly going half-lidded. Kirk is reading his lips across the room, can understand perfectly from the way McCoy's plush lips wrap around the syllables.

Arlington gives him the once over, getting lost in the breadth of McCoy's shoulders, the trim hips and tailored trousers. He completely misses the way McCoy's eyes travel up and down his body, cold and assessing. Kirk doesn't.

Then McCoy's eyes flick over at him.

Kirk tenses, one hand going to his gun, but McCoy turns back to Arlington as nonchalantly as if he hadn't seen anything.

"I've got a type too," he continues, steps forward so that he takes up all of Arlington's personal space. "Maybe we can get to know each other."

"So pretty," Arlington slurs at McCoy, and Kirk disagrees. McCoy is too controlled to be pretty, has too much threat lurking in his soft mouth, in his heart-shaped face.

He does look extremely fuckable, though. Kirk owes McCoy a bullet for the wound in his shoulder that's still aching, but right now he'd settle for his dick up McCoy's ass.

McCoy leans in close enough to Arlington's ear that Kirk can't make out what he says, but he knows McCoy's breath must be hot against Arlington's ear, the wall of his chest flat and solid against Arlington's shoulder. Arlington pulls away reluctantly, heads for the stairs with more than one glance backwards.

McCoy follows him up discreetly, a few minutes later. Kirk forces himself to wait a few minutes after that.

It should be an easy in and out deal. Arlington's hefty, the kind of man who takes pleasure in beating up his own personal trainer, but the Bureau provides very efficient drugs. Kirk checks the door, screws on his silencer, and steps in quietly.

He's sure at first that it's some kind of improbable fuck up, that Arlington had vomited up the drug and pulled some sort of weapon. But as he watches McCoy roll with Arlington on the floor, hands locked around his throat as Arlington slams his fists into McCoy's abdomen, Kirk realizes this has to be intentional. McCoy has at least a dozen opportunities that he doesn't even try to take, lets Arlington slam him into wall and desk and bed while he hangs on like a pitbull. He's bleeding from a cut above his eye, lips smashed, letting out snarling little breaths as the wind gets driven out of him over and over again.

McCoy's hard as a fucking rock in his pants.

Kirk's hard too. Hard to fucking not be, with McCoy panting like he's being fucked through the floor, eyes reduced to slits and mouth open, the tailored suit covered in blood and sweat -- his and another man's.

Kirk shoots Arlington right through the ear.

Blood splashes across McCoy's face like a Pollock painting. His blinks, seems to come back to himself by degrees, and then lets go. Arlington drops to the floor with a wet splat. Kirk taps two more times, just to make sure, the corpse rattling under the blows.

He watches McCoy roll to his knees and then to his feet, hunt out his gun from under the bed. "You flubbed the drug."

McCoy shrugs, blood dripping off his face. "Shit happens."

Then he starts, probably remembers that he shot Kirk like a fucking asshole without even introducing himself. "You're left handed?"

Kirk holds up the gun. "Ambidextrous."

"Figures." McCoy ducks out the window before Kirk can reply. 

Kirk follows him, catches up to him once he's dropped to the ground. "So choking, huh?"

McCoy is wiping the blood spatter off of his face with the back of his hand, only smearing it everywhere. He shrugs. "Spice of life, kid."

"No shit," Kirk says.

\+ + +

Pike calls him in for congratulations a week later, once the reports have been filed.

"I'm impressed." Pike waves the report at him. "McCoy's been our top agent since he got here."

"How many people has he killed?" Kirk asks, and he knows his voice is level because he's been practicing since the mission ended.

"On contract? Two hundred odd."

"And off?"

Pike fucking winks at him.

\+ + +

Kirk is at the gun range to work off some steam when he sees McCoy again.

McCoy's apparently done -- slides off his glasses and the headphones. There's a neat cluster of dots on the paper target, centered directly on its groin. He turns away from the target as he hears Kirk approach, just when Kirk wants him to.

"Nice," says Kirk, nodding at the target.

McCoy shrugs and reloads his clip. "If you're raw about the case, you can take it up with Pike."

"I've got a better idea." He licks his lips, catches McCoy's eyes glinting over at them and solidifies his plan in his mind. "How about I bet my mouth that you can't get the next eight shots in a row."

McCoy doesn't react long enough that Kirk starts to get antsy, contemplates getting the ball rolling a different way, but then McCoy raises his gun and cocks the trigger. He's still looking at Kirk, standing perpendicular to the target, and he never so much as glances away from Kirk as he starts to fire. His grip on the gun is relaxed, almost careless, the piece tilted in his hand but never jumping from the kick after each shot. He finishes the clip, lowers the gun, and finally surveys his handiwork.

Kirk follows his gaze.

There, in the center of the blank oval face of the target, right below the cross and circles that designate the perfect kill point on its forehead, is a smiley face made of thirteen bullet holes.

Kirk answers it with his own version, all his teeth bared.

"Twenty-two hundred, my place." McCoy says. He sounds bored, but he hasn't looked away from Kirk since Kirk showed up. "Bring beer."

Kirk's gonna bring a lot more than that.

\+ + +

McCoy answers the door in a t-shirt so faded the graphic's undecipherable, the neck stretched and worn. His jeans have holes in them, his feet are bare, and he's squinting like he just rolled out of bed.

Kirk holds up the six-pack. "I come bearing gifts."

McCoy steps back from the door, just far enough that Kirk can pass through and just close enough that Kirk has to brush against his shirt as he goes. He smells like sleep and laundry soap and, very faintly, gunpowder.

He takes the beer to the kitchen and hunts around for a bottle opener, feels McCoy’s eyes on him as he leans against the frame of the door, looming as obviously as possible. Kirk cracks one open and takes a swig, swallows as noisily as he can and wraps his lips around the bottle in a way he knows is obscene.

McCoy steals the bottle away from him like clockwork, wraps his mouth around the rim tongue first before he takes a sip. “Still thirsty?”

“You’ve no idea.”

McCoy turns away then, but Kirk catches his lips quirking. He follows McCoy back into the living room. McCoy flops onto the couch, sprawled and slouching, and gestures to his crotch with the bottle. "Get to it."

There was a reason Kirk made the bet after he'd already seen McCoy beast the target. Most people who killed for a living, especially with bullets, understood one thing: hold the gun and you're in charge, take the bullet and you're not. Kirk is going to be the best at what he does because he understands that that's not necessarily the case all the time, that you can get the upper hand with someone's cock in your mouth, that you can win a bet by losing it.

Not that he doesn't have every intention of dicking McCoy afterwards.

He kneels between McCoy's legs, eases between the long thighs and watches McCoy's face as he undoes his zipper. McCoy’s cock is half hard in anticipation, surrounded by dark curling hair and resting on top of temptingly heavy balls. Kirk rolls them in his hand, grips just hard enough that McCoy will know he could tear them off if he wanted, and watches McCoy’s cock harden rapidly.

He keeps one hand on McCoy’s balls, a reminder, and licks at the head of his cock teasingly, tasting the pre come at the slit, flicking his tongue at the tender spot under the head. McCoy has a nice cock, long and straight, and he seems surprisingly content with letting Kirk set his own pace. He holds the beer in one hand, curves the other around the back of Kirk’s skull but makes no move to jerk him around. Kirk is surprised, although maybe he shouldn’t be -- McCoy seems to make a living out of not giving much of a fuck about anything.

He sucks McCoy’s cock in and sets about changing that.

He sets a rhythm that have made stronger men than McCoy beg. McCoy is hard, dripping pre come down Kirk’s throat, but he fidgets where he should be thrusting, should be demanding Kirk give him what he needs so Kirk can deny him and do it on his own damn time.

“Come on, you fucker,” McCoy finally rumbles. His hand shifts restlessly over Kirk’s head, tugging and petting. “Come on, come on.”

Kirk thinks back to McCoy tussling with Arlington with his bare hands, forgetting all about his gun to let Arlington smash his fists into him.

He sets the knife-edge of his teeth against the underside of McCoy’s dick.

McCoy comes at the first scrape of Kirk’s teeth, spurting hot and fast down Kirk’s throat. Kirk swallows it down, teases the last spurts of come out until McCoy is soft and spent. He leans back, wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand. He’s achingly hard, cock straining against his pants, but McCoy’s a wreck, which is nearly as satisfying as orgasm.

McCoy's lashes flick up and down as he takes in Kirk's heaving chest, his strained pants, and then he throws his head back and drains the beer bottle.

Kirk lunges the second he sets it down, hears the glass shatter on the floor as McCoy grabs at him, pulling him down on top of him. McCoy has fucking sharp teeth and lips that beg to be bitten, a hard, angular jaw with muscles that clench under Kirk's fingers, a soft throat under his chin. He's got one hand fisted in the back of Kirk's shirt, forcing him down so he can thrust up against Kirk's belly, even though he's mostly soft and probably still sensitive after his orgasm. The other hand is cupped around Kirk's ass, pulling him into the divot of McCoy's hip where he can press his cock against the worn jeans, the hard muscle beneath.

"Fuck me,” McCoy demands. “I’ve got lube in the bathroom.”

Like Kirk would be that merciful. 

He holds two fingers up to McCoy’s mouth. “Suck.”

He expects McCoy to get fussy about it, was kind of looking forward to it, but McCoy opens his mouth, bites at Kirk as much as he sucks but gets Kirk’s fingers sopping wet. Kirk pulls them out as soon as he dares, circles McCoy’s hole briefly before shoving them both inside. McCoy is tight around his fingers but pulls him in, clenching around him in a way that has Kirk almost coming in his pants at the thought of shoving his dick up there.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” Kirk says, pulling his fingers out. He loves to hear himself say it, loves the way McCoy’s eyes narrow challengingly. He tangles a hand in McCoy's hair, yanks his head back cruelly so he can bite at his neck. But McCoy won't get with the program, his cock throbbing hot and thick in Kirk's other hand, the barest of grunts his only response to Kirk's teeth.

Kirk fucking likes this guy.

He lets go of McCoy's hair and cock, spreads his legs wide and rubs more spit on his own cock. Then he shoves in as hard as he wants, spears McCoy exactly like he's wanted to the moment McCoy's face didn't so much as flicker at his name. He knows it's got to hurt, the barest excuse for lube and the sudden shock of Kirk's cock stretching him, piercing him.

McCoy arches his back, kicks his heels against Kirk's tailbone like Kirk is a goddamn stallion.

"You get off on this," Kirk says, but his smug, knowing tone is all a lie. He can't get over it, how hard McCoy is against his belly, how _obvious_ he is about it.

"Shut up," McCoy says, low and tight, lips curling into a sneer as Kirk skewers him deeper. "Fuck, come on, you little shit, put your money where your goddamn mouth is."

Kirk rides him so hard his own hips have bruises the next day.

\+ + +

Kirk has knowing looks cast at him in the office next day, and can't even pretend to give a damn about them.

McCoy stops by his desk on his way in, peruses him with the same flat expression he had right before he whipped out his gun the first time they met. Kirk knows his lips are still raw, that there's stubble burn on his face and neck, that McCoy can probably discern the rest of the bruises he left, hidden under Kirk's suit.

Kirk looks his fill in turn. McCoy's got a bite mark creeping up over the wrinkled collar of his shirt, a bright red gash on his bottom lip. "Morning sunshine."

Whatever McCoy is pondering, he comes to some sort of conclusion. "They make Bud light with lime now."

Kirk gives him a mock salute. "Duly noted."

The other agents smirk into their coffee. Kirk imagines all of them with neat little bullet holes in their foreheads.

He watches McCoy slump into his chair and hunch over his desk. He's still wearing a fuck ugly suit, hints of tanned flesh and black hair peaking out around his wrists, his hair messy along his forehead. There's a big ticker of a watch on his wrist, a nightmare of a tell Kirk has never seen on another agent. He looks entirely too sloppy for Bureau standards, and Kirk is, begrudgingly, impressed: balls like that can only belong to one truly talented son of a bitch.

Or a self-destructive sociopath who gets off on pain.

As long as he's getting laid, Kirk really doesn't care which.

\+ + +

He still owes McCoy for the shoulder. It’s a question of reputation, if nothing else. Kirk remembers how fast McCoy had come at the scrape of Kirk’s teeth, and figures he won’t mind.

The mark’s name is Sergei Stasov. Kirk finds out that he used to be a bodybuilder before he decided on a career in the Russian mafia, and is absolutely unsurprised to find McCoy getting his face pounded in when he finally shows up. Both his eyes are black, and he’s clutching his chest like he’s cracked a rib or two. His eyes are wide and glazed and the outline of his erection is clearly visible from across the room.

Sergei bellows, nearly as roughed up as McCoy, and lunges for him.

Kirk downs him with one shot, and adds another three for good measure.

McCoy gamely stays on his feet as they make their escape afterward, slipping down the fire exit and into the alley below.

It’s as good a place as any. He shoves McCoy against the wall, keeps him there with one arm pressed against his windpipe while he rips open McCoy’s shirt to bare his right shoulder.

McCoy raises one eyebrow.

Kirk draws out his knife.

McCoy, as Kirk predicted, doesn’t fight. He pulls out his gun, silencer still attached, and aims it straight at Kirk’s eye.

Kirk taps against the muscle of McCoy’s shoulder, the exact same spot where Kirk now has a scar. “Subdavian artery runs through here, means you have to be real careful.”

“You don’t have to tell me, kid.” McCoy’s lips quirk. The gun doesn’t so much as quiver. “I was a doctor when you were still figuring out what to do with your dick.”

Kirk presses in for that, just the tip of the blade piercing McCoy’s smooth skin.

McCoy presses the butt of the silencer right against his cheekbone, the top of the curve pressing into his eye socket. But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make any move to push Kirk off.

Kirk presses a little deeper.

The edges of McCoy’s mouth tighten.

Kirk twists the knife.

He gets a mewl then, a strained whining sound that he needs to hear again.

McCoy unzips his fly when Kirk pushes the knife in further, jacks himself off slow and steady, the gun in his other hand never moving from Kirk’s face. Kirk follows suit, takes his time, focuses utterly on carving out a scar on McCoy’s shoulder to match his own, letting his orgasm build in his trapped, frustrated cock.

He can tell when McCoy starts to get close, his hand going faster as his breath picks up, fingers wet and sticky with pre come. His hips are jerking frenetically, threatening to play havoc with Kirk’s work. “Hold still.”

“Make me,” McCoy dares, and that’s more than enough for Kirk. He leans forward, clamps down on McCoy’s shoulder with one hand and drives the knife in _deep_ with the other.

McCoy’s expression when he comes is surprisingly blissful, given how much time he spends scowling.

He pitches the knife to the side as soon as McCoy’s done, frees his cock, and grabs McCoy’s head to pull him down on it. McCoy falls to his knees and opens up immediately, swallows down as much as he can and then holds on when Kirk grabs his hair, starts snapping his cock into McCoy’s mouth, down his throat. McCoy is gagging, coughing around Kirk’s dick, but his hands are digging into Kirk’s hips, pulling him closer in time with Kirk’s thrusts.

Kirk comes with his cock shoved deep, makes McCoy swallow every last drop of come.

It takes a while for Kirk to convince his hands to let go off that, only moves off when McCoy swats at him. He’s still coughing, wiping spit off his mouth when he isn't cradling his shoulder awkwardly, looking grumpy and mussed and totally fuckable.

 “Give me five minutes and I swear to God I’m doing that again.”

“Make it a half hour.” McCoy pulls out his keys. “I’m hungry. You like waffles?”

“Not really.”

“Too fucking bad. I’m driving.”

Kirk lets him drive for five minutes, and then keeps his promise.

\+ + +

It's a surprisingly settled arrangement between them after that. McCoy is the senior agent, which means he gets the cool jobs while Kirk is supposed to lick his boots and let McCoy handle him for his more meager cases. They're all insultingly easy, meant to sting his ego so he works that much harder to outdo his superior. McCoy is supposed keep him in line and work his ass off so he doesn’t wind up on a suicide mission with his security clearance handed to Kirk.

Kirk does sneak along on McCoy’s cases, studies his methods and one ups him as often as possible. But mostly they fuck.

He’s still shocked that no one understands McCoy, since the man makes no attempt whatsoever to hide that he has a raging boner for pain. For such a rigidly private man, he wears his heart very clearly on his sleeve.

Kirk fucks him that much harder for it.

He doesn’t use the knife again, saves those for the jobs that need more finesse. McCoy, he learns quickly, has a thing for getting roughed up like nobody’s business. He routinely chooses the messiest route possible to a kill, takes everything they dish out before he even thinks to hunt for his gun. Kirk lets him have his fun, and then puts the fucker out of his misery when he’s too hard to take it anymore. They run or drive or drag each other way to the nearest secluded spot -- or semi-secluded, Kirk likes that, likes the idea that people might catch them -- and fuck until McCoy’s groans are closer to Kirk’s name than anything else and Kirk swears his come is going to spray right up McCoy’s throat.

It works great until the agency demands something besides an assassination.

Technically they still get to kill people, since the drugs are being guarded, and it’s listed as an official case. But Kirk knows a game of fetch when he sees one.

“This is bullshit,” McCoy says as he rifles through some pillows. They killed everyone who had been hiding in here hours ago, and have been searching ever since. Pike’s sources swear up and down that this is where the cocaine is being kept, and the number of people lying dead in the living room points to them telling the truth.

Kirk wishes there were more people to kill.

“It’s got to be here somewhere. The guards shot way too much for it to be a fake out.”

McCoy grunts distractedly, and Kirk looks back from the closet he’s searching to find McCoy staring at the ceiling. It’s new, Kirk realizes, and knows McCoy is coming to the same conclusion when they lock eyes.

Later, Kirk will grudgingly admit that it wasn’t his brightest idea. At the time, he’s pissed and frustrated and bored.

He shoots right at the ceiling.

It blows to pieces almost instantly, and a ton of high-grade Colombian cocaine comes raining down on them.

They spit and cough blindly for precious seconds, and Kirk can feel the drug hit his blood, everything starting to become easier somehow, bubbling inside him. He stumbles forward until he grabs McCoy’s shirt, shoves them both into the shower. He fumbles around, turns on the spray, and as the coke washes off of him, finally letting him open his eyes, he belatedly realizes that Pike is gonna chew them out for washing away half the stash. He doesn’t give a shit; serves Pike right. 

He’s far more concerned with McCoy, wet and shuddering inches away from him.

McCoy’s eyes are red but doggedly clear, the coke only showing in the white streaks on his clothing, the way he keeps barking out laughter, the way he grabs Kirk by the lapels and pulls him in until their foreheads touch, until they’re close enough to kiss.

Kirk wraps his hand around McCoy’s broad throat.

McCoy fights it, like Kirk knew he would. He thrashes, shoves at Kirk’s chest and elbows and scrabbles at his face, all the usual complaining Kirk has come to like, that lets him know McCoy has no serious interest in getting away. Kirk lets him fuss, focuses on McCoy’s eyes and the way the pupils dilate, locks his thigh between McCoy’s legs and rubs off against McCoy’s hip as he thrusts against the top of Kirk’s. It’s viscerally good, the thudding triumph of another man’s life in his hands. He waits for McCoy to shove at him with real strength, to gasp for air with real need.

McCoy’s eyes start to glaze over, his face going red as his throat convulses under Kirk’s hand.

Shit.

Kirk moves reluctantly to pull away, maybe shove his hand down his pants or McCoy’s, ride the high as much as possible.

McCoy clamps down on Kirk’s hand on his throat, uses all his strength to keep Kirk there.

Kirk struggles blindly, ineffectually, feeling McCoy’s veins leaping against his skin, so turned on he can’t stand it. McCoy is rutting against him with jackhammer rhythm, hip jutting into Kirk’s cock. Kirk comes desperately, fucking helplessly, so hard he can’t see for seconds afterwards, has no idea McCoy has come until his hand is abruptly released.

McCoy slumps against him, dead to the world, warm and heavy.

It’s a long time before Kirk remembers that they really need to get to the hospital.

\+ + +

It’s only later, lying awake and totally sober, that Kirk finally gets what’s turning McCoy’s crank, what his orgasm meant.

It's not pain that McCoy gets off on. It's dying.

\+ + +

Three days later Pike calls him in and hands him a new security card. Kirk's clearance has been doubled.

"I thought I wasn't supposed to be cleared for this much until at least a year in."

"You've been sneaking onto high profile missions since you started."

"I have, haven't I?" Kirk has never seen the point in refusing to gloat.

Pike seems irritated by that, dismisses the topic with a flick of his fingers. "What do you think of McCoy?"

Kirk doesn't get the connection. "What's not to love?"

"He's a bitter, asocial sociopath who's murdered everyone we've assigned him."

"You hired him."

"He was the best."

Kirk sits up straighter, adrenaline zinging through him. "Was?"

"That coke case puts you in a solid lead. And, just as I thought, you've shown an incredible aptitude for discerning the necessary _modus operandi_ for any particular case."

Which is to say that Pike has had enough of McCoy's style for a long time now. "I'm flattered."

"Take a few days off to celebrate," Pike suggests. "I've got a job for McCoy in Sicily that he can handle on his own."

\+ + +

Kirk steals the assignment file before leaving the building, and it's exactly as he suspected: mafia boss, paranoid security, sparse cover and no plausible reason for an agent to be there beyond a kill job.

There are two ways to finish any mission: the first is to drop in silently, make the kill as quickly as possible, and leave the cleaners with nothing to do except haul the body off -- the method Spock waxed poetic about far too much in the Academy. The other way is what got Kirk recruited in the first place, which is dropping in ass first and bleeding and slugging the guy to death when you have a gun holstered next to your heart.

Kirk is amazing at both of them. He's learned that McCoy has a slight preference for the latter.

McCoy's also got a death wish that makes him come so hard he passes out.

Increased security clearance within the Agency -- along with doubled pay and prioritized protection -- is restricted to a select few. One more in means another has to go out, and all Kirk has to do is sit back and let McCoy do what he does best.

Kirk's in Sicily before they've even issued McCoy his plane ticket.

\+ + +

Even without a masochism streak a mile wide, it’s not an easy job.

Acesto Zaglanikis keeps a villa on the outskirts of Siracusa, where afternoon light streams in through bulletproof, reinforced glass windows, and the prostitutes Zaglankis likes to keep around flirt with the heavily armed guards. 

It’s a shit show from start to finish. Kirk has no time to wait for the cover of darkness, settles for twilight when he can scrabble along the roof and drop in through the colonnaded walkway that looks out over the seafront. He’s pounced on almost immediately, goes through a clip of bullets and then takes a solid few kicks to the ribs before he can dash for cover in the maze of the villa’s many rooms, bullets whining in his wake. He locks the door to the colonnade and buys a little time, but Zaglankis’ guards are crawling through the entire house, come running when the ones outside radio in.

Kirk darts from room to room, down as many hallways as he dares, and reflects that this really should have been a two-man job.

He has to throw his gun away to get the guards at the door to go investigate, but the solid mahogany door is more form than function, opens easily at his knock. He finds Zaglankis lounging on his bed, propped up in front of his laptop, apparently completely unaware that an attempt was being made on his life.

“You,” he says in English, not giving a shit whether Zaglankis speaks it or not. “Are a hard man to get in touch with.”

Zaglankis, of course, reaches under his pillow and pulls out a rifle.

Kirk lunges and wrestles for control of it. Zaglankis has the layer of fat a life of luxury provides, but he’s heavy and ferociously intent, obviously knows that Kirk is not here to settle for anything less than his life. He whacks Kirk in the head with the rifle, misses his femoral artery by an inch when he tries to shoot at his thigh.

Kirk is aching by the time he gets the rifle, shoots Zaglankis’ face off with a messy brutality that would make Instructor Spock weep.

McCoy is gonna be grateful for this whether he likes it or not.

He takes the first plane he can back to the US, charms the flight attendant into bumping him up to First Class, and orders a glass of champagne. It dulls the pain of bruised ribs and aching limbs, although Kirk knows he’s going to pay for this later, knows he needs to rest.

Soon.

\+ + +

McCoy's there when he finally stumbles through the front door.

It's the first time he's ever had McCoy in his apartment. They've fucked all over McCoy's, a dozen different exotic locations and that one time in Pike's office. Kirk is shocked by how much difference it makes to see McCoy standing amongst his things.

Sicily was absolutely worth it.

“Just had a nice round trip to Italy,” McCoy begins, and Kirk can tell he doesn’t get it yet because of how furious he sounds. “Eight hours in an airplane bathroom and as soon as I touch down Pike tells me it’s been taken care of.”

Kirk shrugs his coat off, wary of his ribs. “You’re welcome.”

“You fucking pissant. All that trouble to fuck me over and you couldn’t even do it to my face?”

It’s easy to see McCoy is working himself up into a froth, probably wants to rant a while before diving at Kirk’s throat. Kirk is really too tired to tussle, and way to tired to listen to McCoy stubbornly refuse to understand anything about anything.

He whips out his gun shoots McCoy right in the center of his stomach.

McCoy collapses immediately, bellowing, his stomach puking blood all over the carpet. He curls fruitlessly over the wound and then falls to his side, rolls slowly to his back and reaches sloppily for his gun. Kirk grabs it before he can do anything stupid, pitches it along with his own to the other side of the room.

"This is for your fucking shoulder," McCoy grits out, starting to shiver. Kirk knows McCoy’s got hours before he bleeds out, but probably only minutes before he loses him to shock. "You petty asshole."

"McCoy, McCoy, McCoy.” Kirk realizes that he'll have to come up with a new name for him -- this one doesn’t lend itself to condescension well enough for Kirk’s needs. “I got over that ages ago. You need to learn to let things go.”

McCoy shoves at him when Kirk gets close enough but shudders and whimpers brokenly as soon as he does. It’s a piece of cake to bat his arms away, spread his legs and cup McCoy’s face with one hand as he reaches down for McCoy’s crotch in the other. McCoy’s cock is granite hard under his pants, under the heel of his palm.

“Get _fucked_ ,” McCoy snarls. “If you’re gonna kill me then get it over with.”

“If I wanted to kill you,” Kirk explains, speaking slowly because McCoy is taking his sweet time adding thing things up, “I would have shot you in the head.”

McCoy pants wetly, mouth open and tongue peaking out, chest heaving. Kirk isn’t sure if it’s the pain, or Kirk’s hand grinding slowly over his cock, or just revelation, but whatever it is turning him on. He makes an aborted attempt to thrust up against Kirk’s hand and then screams, eyes screwed up tight and cock harder than ever.

“None of the marks could give you this,” Kirk points out, rubs along the straining outline of McCoy’s cock so McCoy doesn’t try and push up again.

McCoy does it anyway, eyes rolling as his wound jolts. Delirium looks criminally good on him, has Kirk ready to come and nothing’s even touched his dick besides the confines of his pants.

“I could beat you so hard you wouldn’t be able to walk for a week,” Kirk promises, low and sincere. “And that’s before I fuck you.”

“Shut up,” McCoy demands hoarsely. “Harder.”

“You’re one fucked up little puppy, McCoy,” Kirk praises, undoing McCoy’s fly and starting to jack him off properly.

“Pot.” McCoy heaves the word out as if it takes all the strength he has. He’s thrashing under Kirk’s hand, breaking off these little sounds as he tries to thrust up and doesn’t have the strength to. “Kettle.”

And he grabs Kirk’s stiff cock through his pants, hard enough to make Kirk’s eyes water.

They come in sync: Kirk against the rough fabric of his jeans and the rougher caress of McCoy’s hand; McCoy with an agonized shout that immediately engraves itself in Kirk’s mind, his eyes wide like he's seeing for the first time.

\+ + +

They hit the Bureau's liaison hospital minutes later. Kirk has McCoy wheeled into surgery with all the speed a gun and badge can get him. He watches McCoy disappear behind the OR doors, and then finds himself alone in the waiting room, covered in blood.

He takes a seat between an old lady and a small child who stares at him with wide eyes. He waits.

Pike finds him an hour later, saunters down the hallway and comes to a stop in front of him, hands clasped speculatively behind his back.

Kirk looks up.

“He’s killed every other agent we’ve assigned him, you know.”

“Why?”

It’s not the answer Pike was expecting, but understanding dawns slowly on his face. “Because they tried to kill him.”

“I don’t think we’ll have any problems, then.”

Pike seems amused. "Buddy system, huh?"

Kirk shrugs. "I prefer the term 'rivalry.'"

Pike hands him another security card, with McCoy's picture. "I bet you do."

Kirk checks the security clearance and laughs until his belly aches.

\+ + +

McCoy wakes up three hours after surgery. He's on a shitload of painkillers, and enough sedatives that he should still be out for the rest of the day, but he's elbowed up against the pillows and clear-eyed when Kirk comes back after a quick run to the coffee place in the lobby.

"You shot me." He doesn't sound accusatory so much as observant, something careful finally in his eyes.

"I did." Kirk holds out the bag. "Donut?"

McCoy blinks, surprised as when he got off under Kirk's hands in a puddle of his own blood. Then he snatches the bag and bites into the boston cream. 

"Did I tell you I got promoted?"

McCoy doesn't look up from his donut. "Mazel tov."

"It gets better." Kirk hands him his new security card. "Since you didn't get to conveniently fall on your sword in Sicily, they bumped you down to junior clearance."

McCoy pauses, scanning the card expressionless, and then drops it on the bed and goes back to eating. "So now I'm shadowing you, I take it."

"Don't look so thrilled." Kirk sits down next to him, crowds into his space until he can wrap one hand around the back of McCoy's neck and lean in to say, "I'm a very demanding superior."

McCoy takes a thoughtful bite, making no move to shake Kirk off, and then says, "You're lucky you have good taste in donuts."

"It was the only one they had left," Kirk admits.

McCoy laughs hoarsely, until he coughs on his food and then has to grit his teeth as his wound is jolted. He curls a hand over his stomach, stares at Kirk. "You're something else, Kirk."

Kirk swipes off a tempting smear of custard from McCoy's lips. "That makes two of us."


End file.
